Week of Change

This week was sort of eventful. Here’s how it went. Monday evening I got a call asking if I could come for a job interview at Reed Elementary. Tuesday I had the interview. Wednesday they offered me the job. Thursday I accepted. I start on Monday.

That’s right, I am the new music teacher at Reed Elementary School right here in Allen, Texas. It will be great to be a part of a school community again.

It is a very nice building, I have a very nice room, the administrators seem to be top-flight, and it’s only 5 miles from home.

I spent a fair amount of Thursday and Friday trying to figure out what to do with all my private students, and figure out the curriculum, general approach, and practices the general music staff uses here in the Allen school district.

Next week I’ll be in meetings all day, and also getting my room ready, figuring out a private lesson schedule, take Katy back to college in Pella, Iowa, and do the Pigman Triathlon (70.3 mile distance).

Life can change a lot in one week.

Comet

I rode 60 miles today on my bike. That was a long ride.

I was thinking along the way, that people are, in a way, like comets.

Let’s say a person is the comet, and the sun is God.

A comet, way, way out in space is a frozen hunk of stuff. As the comet nears the sun it warms up. The warmth of the sun and the solar wind begin to thaw the comet, and the inner make-up of the comet begins to come to the surface. It transforms from a frozen rock, invisible, to an amazingly beautiful sight in the sky, with a blazing coma (head) and long magnificent tail. The actual rock of a comet is very small and invisible to us, but the coma and tail of a comet are spectacular and visible for millions upon millions of miles. So, proximity to the sun draws out the beauty of the comet, which, in outer space, is just a plain old frozen rock, invisible to the universe.

So it is with a person. As we draw near to God he draws out the beauty within us, and magnifies it for all to see.

The difference is the comet is irresistibly drawn to the sun by gravity, and a person, even though God is drawing him to himself, can choose to stay out in the far reaches of space, a frozen rock, invisible, incomplete, unfulfilled. Like a seed never planted, never becoming what it was intended to be.

Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. James 4:8

Pigman hopeful

There are two parts to every race – mental and physical.

I’m training for the Pigman Triathlon. I decided to do the race sort of late and so I’m on a pretty accelerated training schedule. Adding lots of miles every week stresses the body, but necessary to prepare for the race. I have been a little worried I would have injury trouble and have to stop. My calves have been sort of sore the last few days, and I was concerned that they might not be able to hold up for my scheduled 17 mile run.

My 17 miler went like this:

Miles 1-10
Physical – felt fine
Mental - worrying my calves would not last for the entire 17 miles;

Miles 11-13
Physical – hot, completely sweated through, legs like rubber
Mental - worrying that my calves would last and I would have to run the entire 17

Miles 14-15
Physical – everything hurts A LOT
Mental - regretting telling everybody that I was going to run 17 so that I would have to
actually go through with it

Miles 16-17
Physical – ugly, very ugly
Mental – increasingly sunny, so happy to be completing the run

I’m not sure which part got the best work out; mind or body, but I will have a lot of confidence on race day knowing I’m prepared.

Overprotected?

The worst part of swimming is the end of the pool. You never really get anywhere, or go anywhere – just back and forth, back and forth. I swam 2200 yards today. It took an hour. I could have walked that distance at a leisurely pace in 20 minutes. A decent swimmer could have done it in 25 minutes.

I’m just slow. At the triathlon they calculate your average pace in seconds per 100 yards. They calculate my average time in relative progress, you know, like a glacier. I swim sort of like congress – lots and lots of flailing around causing lots of waves and noise but very little actual progress.

2200 yards is down and back 44 times. Swimming that far is one thing, keeping track of laps in another. My system is count up to 10 and then back down to 1, over and over. It’s hard to be sure you counted all the laps. 2200 yards is 1.2 miles, counting every one minute and 10 seconds – 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5 and on and on. Yesterday I ran 15 miles- one lap.

I have to say, however, that I m beginning to enjoy swimming, at times. Since I’m taking it real easy and not pushing it I can keep heart rate down, and actually relax. So, especially for the first 30 minutes today it just felt so relaxing to be in the water, and the sun was shining, I could think about editing the three, no four movies I’m currently working on.

I never thought I would ever say I enjoyed swimming.

I swim in the community pool and I arrived when it opened at 10:00. I was the only person there except for the four life guards. It was certainly the safest miles anyone ever swam.

That’s a little bit like our lives – we are sometimes over-protected in the wrong areas. We have insured our houses, health expenses, cars, and income. We lock our doors, secure our computers, and apply sun screen. But what system is keeping track of our heart? What alarm goes off when we speak a harsh word, or put someone down, or tear someone down when they aren’t there? Who jumps in to rescue us when we discount all the blessings we have and turn a craving eye on cars, houses, jobs, lifestyles, vacations? What system do we have to keep tender hearts open to the lost, the poor, or the needy?

Natural Causes

Dying of natural causes puts life in a different perspective. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s not life cut short, it’s not some tragic accident, just a life that has run its course. The cicada I ran past today was dying of natural causes; spinning around in sputtering circles on its back. I wonder why bugs die on their backs.

Anyway, seeing the insect die got me thinking about life and death. A quote came into my mind, something about “We are all dying slowly every day.” I’m sure you have heard that line of thinking. I suppose, in a way, it is true. We are finite, every day brings us closer to the end of our life.

Well, anyway, today it seemed to me that the opposite is true, that every day we are becoming more alive. This life is only the first stage in our life cycle, this body only a cocoon. This life can be amazing at times, but we, like caterpillars have to crawl around in the dirt and inch our way through life. But in the next we’ll fly like butterflies.

And, if we can believe the words of Jesus, what we do in this life will have an effect on our life in the next. So, in many ways we are just beginning to live, and every day we become more alive.

Rosy glasses

When I bike I am usually in a city, since the nearest non-city space is almost 10 miles away. City biking has its own challenges, like paying enough attention to traffic to avoid getting smacked by a big truck, and dodging pot holes. Also, instead of road kill on the shoulder there are lots of nails, small bits of metal, and other construction material which collect in the gutters.

But lately, as my training for the Pigman has required longer rides, I’ve been out in the country a little bit. The country is always nice, and North Texas is no exception. I love to hear the birds, and insects, and the wind in the trees. The land is gently rolling and is mostly pasture although some of the ground is cultivated. There are lots of trees here, but no forests. Everything that grows looks happy enough, but tough and hard. It shows the years of blazing heat, scarce rainfall, poor soil, and cold winter winds, and yet the harsh environment made it stronger and healthier.

I just got back from my ride this evening and I was going to write about how amazingly red the sunset was. I couldn’t ever remember seeing such a beautiful red, red setting sun. But as I started writing I realized my sunglasses made it look red!

Well, nevertheless it was a beautiful sunset, even if colored rosy by my glasses.

Survival

Katy wanted to ride a bike to the library. She thought Susan’s bike would be good, but, in the typical Dad “You can do it” spirit, I suggested mine. “Susan’s is so small, and the tires need air.”

The seat was a little high so I lowered it. Katy said it felt a little too high still, but I thought it was about the right height for best efficiency so I had her try it a little. Oh, and there was also the foot strap to deal with. “It’s ok” I assured her, just remember to take your foot out before you stop. She was pretty hesitant, but I encouraged her that she could do it, and just try it a little to see if that seat height isn’t right.

She went 20 feet, the seat felt too high, she tried to stop, forgot the foot strap, stopped the bike and fell right over in the alley.

As she rode away on Susan’s bike I had a flash-back of the time I was teaching Andy to drive and sent him up a one way street the wrong way. Sometimes I wonder how my kids survived me.